An Arrow Flies no More
by Captain Grifter
Summary: This is my first story. It is a crossover between Marvel and DC comics. It is a story of the Green arrow's death, and how Nightwing fights for the vengeance of The Green Arrow's life.


An Arrow Flies No More

The year was 1976. I was still new to protecting the streets solo when it happened. I was only 19 when the incident occurred. .To this day I have never seen anything so brutal or blood-chilling as I did that day. I am the Nightwing. This is the story of Oliver "Green Arrow" Queen's death.

It was 4:36 a.m. when I found his body. It's funny how to this day I remember the exact time I found him. He was hanging by a wire from Gotham City Hall. The wire was being held in place by one thing: One of Oliver's arrows. His outfit, that green, sleeveless, hooded sweatshirt he always wore was now a deep red. In fact, his whole body was red, except for a few spots of visible skin. The smell hit me the hardest- it was a smell not of death, but of utter despair. And this whole time, I could feel it in the air. It was a feeling of murderous intent stronger than any I had ever felt. To this day, having fought from common thugs, all the way to The Joker, I have never felt intent to kill as strong as this. I looked down from his body to the street I front of where he hung from Gotham City Hall, swinging like a pendulum. And there, standing in the street, covered in Oliver's blood, was the last person I expected, and wanted, to see. The King of Death himself, Wolverine. Last I had heard, he was still locked in Arkham Asylum after the "Holdout" Incident. But there he was, standing in front of me, a howling mad grin on his face. I knew he had seen me. He said, "scoot along, little boy, this is grown up business." I looked at him and said," Screw off, Wolfy. This man was my friend, and you killed him, so now, you've gotta deal with me." There was no need to ask why he had killed him. The answer was quite simple: He did it out of pure entertainment. He said two words: Get ready. He was in front of me in a split second. I was able to dodge with barely a quarter of a second to react. I pulled out my staff and hit him square in the stomach. He flew backwards, yet he landed on his feet. He unsheathed his claws and came running again. I attempted to dodge, but he reacted and sliced me right across the chest. I fell, but jumped to my feet and assessed myself. I was bleeding, but not bad. The cuts were only superficial. Now, it was my turn to attack. I released the lock on my staff, which broke it into two nightsticks, made of carbonic titanium. It was the only other metal in the world that could affect Wolverine's adamantium skeleton. I rushed him with the fury of a tiger. He ran at me, but at the last second, I jumped over him. In a split second, I hit him with all my might in two places: his neck and the base of his spine. As I landed, I felt a flush of liquid rush down my face like a waterfall. The pain hit me in an instant. I couldn't see out of my right eye. I felt my face. The entire right side of my face was sliced open in three distinct claw marks. I stood up and looked at my opponent with my good eye. His neck was bent at an angle. This was my chance, I thought to myself. I ran, blood flying off my face, and just as I was about to reach him, he turned. I couldn't stop. His claws cut through my skin like a hot knife through butter. My chest was flayed open like a steak. But, at the same moment he slashed me, I brought both my nightsticks down on top of his head. He dropped right then and there. I looked down at him. The entire left half of his skull was caved in, and there was blood puddling beneath his body in large amounts. I said, " May God have mercy on your Soul." At this point, I blacked out.

I awoke in the hospital 6 days later. The whole country was raving over "The Avenging of the Green Arrow." I got up and left the hospital, against doctor's advice, of course. The funeral was today, it said on the news. I stumbled to a cab and directed him to Gotham Cemetery. I don't remember much, but I remember stumbling to his casket, falling on my knees and crying. At the eulogy, I held his wife, Black Canary, in my arms as we cried together. His body was placed to rest in the ground at 5:32 p.m. He was buried with his bow and quiver. On his headstone read this: Oliver Queen- a hero, friend, and husband.

I visit his gravestone twice a month, and I leave not flowers, but one of the many arrows he had crafted. And I sit there and tell him how life has been. I'm 38 now, and I still remember his smile, and how, when he shot an arrow, it seemed to soar into eternity.


End file.
